The Turning of the Leaves
by Mercaque
Summary: Three years after the events of "Loss," Alex Cabot is told it's safe to return to New York City. But is she ready for the tremendous changes that await her? (Not a happyfic.)
1. Prologue: The Sea

Title: The Turning of the Leaves  
Author: Mercaque  
Rating: R  
Genre: Drama  
Summary: Three years after the events of "Loss," Alex Cabot is told it's safe to return to New York City. But is she ready for the tremendous changes that await her?

* * *

PROLOGUE

I sit alone in my apartment, watching gray waves roll against an old wooden pier.

The bone-white sailboats boats undulate with the water. Up. Down. Up. Down. Never moving forward or backward; like a metronome, they just tick off the endless stretch of time that lies before them.

I sigh heavily. It's exactly what I've been doing with my life for the last three years.

Three years. That's how long it's been since I left my old life in New York City. The Witness Protection Program set me up in Annapolis, Maryland. It's a picturesque seaside town if ever I saw one.

But for all I'm enjoying it, it may as well be a jail term.

Oh, I know it's not fair to compare Annapolis to a prison. It's a nice place. There's a naval academy, and colonial cobblestone streets, and crab cakes to die for. But I've come to the bitter realization that all these things are worth little if I have no future.

Gone are my grand ambitions for district attorney; my eventual dream of getting elected to public office has evaporated into thin air. I dimly remember being a brassy, fresh-faced lawyer fresh out of school, just itching to send the bad guys up the river. Now I'm a thirty-something office worker with little hope of advancing beyond my menial desk job. I'm actually good enough at my paper-pushing that I've been asked to go to Washington a few times, but I know they can't vouch for my safety if I do. If I stick my head up too far, I'm certain I'll again draw Velez's attention. Velez - he haunts my every step and my every hope of advancement. I hate him for it; but more than that, I hate myself for bending to his threats. But what other choice do I have?

Gone are my crisp, tailored business suits and bitch pumps. In their place are comfortable flats, sensible slacks, and beige jackets. Gone is my prized long hair; I've cut it short, and it now frames my face in choppy brunette layers. I like to alternate between brown, blonde and red. It's sad, but picking out my next hair color is one of the few thrills I get in my otherwise flat routine.

Gone is my libido; I haven't had the slightest flicker of sexual desire in two years. The last person I fucked was one of our summer interns four months ago, and that was more out of intellectual curiosity than anything resembling desire. At least I sent a very happy young man back to the University of Maryland.

Gone are my fit, lean jogger's calves and thighs. I don't run anymore. I just haven't been able to muster the will to do it, not since they told me Velez had been tracking my route through Central Park. It's not that I think Velez will find me jogging here in Annapolis. It's just that, in that moment, my bubble of security popped. And I've never quite been able to re-establish it.

That's why I rarely venture outside my apartment. It's also probably why I've put on 20 pounds of pure fat since I came here. I care nothing for the outside world, I can't be bothered to eat anything other than breakfast cereal and cheap Chinese takeout, and if you quizzed me about what I did at work today, I'd likely fail. My job is mindless repetition; it's something a first-year law student could do in her sleep. Hell, my mind _is_ asleep most of the time these days. If my physical body is bloated and out of shape, I can't say my mental state is any better.

At least I'm not out of control or self-destructive. My worst vice is my weekly pack of Marlboros.

I like to walk along Annapolis' harbor when I smoke, letting the wind ruffle my short hair and the rolling sea soothe my thoughts. Sometimes I just crouch down and stare into the harbor's green depths, wondering what it would be like to rest at the bottom – to just close my eyes and let the heavy rhythms of the water rock me to sleep.

I'm not miserable enough to let myself drop off the pier just yet. But I'm not happy enough to call what I do living, either.

It's just a heavy numbness, settling like a cold lump of iron at the center of my chest. I've melted completely into my daily routine – I wake up, eat a bland breakfast, go to work and push papers all day, come home, watch TV, fall asleep. And then I wake up the next day and do it all over again, and somehow, the time ticks by.

And some days, it works. I can dull my mind until my old fire, my old ambitions, and my old friends are just hazy blurs from a distant past. It's like the hollow nostalgia of grainy home video reels; I mourn what I don't feel more than what I do.

I shake my head, trying to clear the worst of my introspective fog. The sailboats are still bobbing beneath the ash-gray November sky; the sea is as impassive and unforgiving as ever.

And that's when it happens.

The phone rings, splitting the gloomy silence of my tiny apartment. My eyes shoot to the phone; not many people call me, and even three years later, my heart pounds every time. Maybe, just maybe...

I snatch the receiver from the cradle. "Hello?"

"Melissa Jones?" comes a gruff male voice on the other end. Melissa Jones – my alias is as bland as my life.

"Yes, that's me," I answer, my spirits sinking. Probably a telemarketer.

"This is Fred Johnson," he identifies himself, and my pulse picks up once again. My body jerks in surprise as I realize that he was my contact in the program. I grip the phone tighter, trying to hold down my excitement.

"Did you get my onion soup order?" I ask, struggling valiantly to keep my voice even. If he answers correctly, he knows the code. And if he knows the code...

"The onion soup should be on its way," Fred replies.

My knees buckle; I feel as though I've been punched in the stomach. I sink to the floor, tears flooding my eyes. He knows the code.

"Did you... did it... can I..." My voice is barely coherent.

"Miss Cabot, we've done some thorough investigating," Fred tells me. His voice is businesslike, and if he has any reaction to my obvious distress, I can't hear it over the phone. "Cesar Velez was killed a year and a half ago."

"What? And you've been keeping me here all this time?" I splutter, my shock turning to brief, white-hot rage.

"We needed to wait until his operation was in severe enough disarray," Fred answers placatingly, and I nod. It occurs to me belatedly that he can't hear a nod over the phone, but he continues talking anyway. "It hasn't been until now that we feel confident enough to call you out of the program."

"Oh my god," I choke out. "Thank you."

-END PROLOGUE-

Author's Notes: I actually spent a good chunk of my childhood in Annapolis, and I really liked it. Don't let my bleak description fool you – it's a lovely little town. Also, no offense intended to any Melissa Joneses who might be reading. If it makes you feel any better, my real name ain't exactly Cleopatra.

And finally, if you think I've sprung Cabot too easily... just keep reading.


	2. Chapter 1: All is not as it seems

Title: The Turning of the Leaves  
Author: Mercaque  
Rating: R  
Genre: Drama  
Summary: Three years after the events of "Loss," Alex Cabot is told it's safe to return to New York City. But is she ready for the tremendous changes that await her?

* * *

CHAPTER 1

It's been two weeks since I got the call, but only now have I dared return to New York City. I first flew to see my mother upstate. I'm faintly embarrassed now, but tears welled in my eyes at nearly every meal she served. It had been so long, so very long...

My first day back in the city is equally emotional. The wall-to-wall roar of traffic, the multilingual shouts of passers-by, the wild tapestry of people and colors and even smells... it all rushes around me, enveloping me, welcoming me back. There's nothing like the womblike anonymity of a big city. And there's no big city quite like New York.

And yet, anxiety dogs my every step. I can't help looking over my shoulder, wondering if the phone call was all a joke. No, I met with the witness protection guys; I was assured the city was safe for me again; and besides, I have to acknowledge the grim fact that if Velez was trying to kill me, I'd probably already be dead. Rationally, I know I have little to worry about. And yet I feel as though I'm dancing on the edge of a razor blade.

* * *

It's early morning, and I'm hurrying to the sixteenth precinct. A fierce wind, sweeping off the chill East River, bites into my exposed cheeks. I tighten my long, black coat and give silent thanks I chose to wear jeans and thick boots today.

If SVU is anything like it used to be, the detectives will likely be busy. But I'm willing to wait all day if that's what it takes to see my old friends. The crippling depression of the past three years hasn't completely abated, but my spirits perk up as I recall all their faces: Olivia, Elliot, John, Huang, Fin...

I hurry up the precinct steps and breathe a sigh of relief when the doors close warmly behind me. The old hallway is exactly as I remember it, and I find my way around expertly – as though I'd never left.

When I enter the old squad room, I choke back a sudden rush of tears.

The air hitting my nostrils has exactly the same mixture as before – the office's cool metal, the faint scent of chalk in the air, the day-old coffee. There's the same busy symphony of clacking typewriters, shuffling papers, ringing telephones, and busy officers hurrying back and forth and in and out.

My vision clears, and I scan the office. Olivia, Elliot, John, Fin... are nowhere to be found. My stomach flutters briefly. Where the hell are they? There's a tall, skinny redhead sitting obliviously at Olivia's desk, an olive-skinned woman at Elliot's. A Nordic-looking man with a blond buzz cut, seated at the desk across the aisle, fires questions rapidly into the phone and scribbles down the answers.

I can't keep the confusion off my face. I know I'm standing in the middle of the precinct, probably looking like an idiot, but I can't help it. Where is everyone? Am I in the right building?

Cragen's door opens, and my gaze shoots toward it hopefully. But from the office emerges a middle-aged, pear-shaped Asian woman. She instantly takes notice of me and hurries over.

"Can I help you?" Her voice is cool and professional, but it's laced with concern. She probably thinks I'm here to report a sex crime. I stifle a bitter laugh at the thought.

"Is this..." I find my voice. "Is this the special victims unit?"

"Yes, dear, it is," she answers. "I'm Captain Karen Fong. Do you need to report a crime?"

This time, I do laugh, but it's from nervousness. "No. I'm actually looking for..." Colleagues? Do I want to give that much information away? "...for some old friends of mine. I used to know this squad pretty well."

The captain pulls back fractionally, pursing her lips. The concern has disappeared from her features. "How long ago would you say that was?"

"About... three years ago."

"That would be Captain Cragen's old unit?" she asks. Her voice grows icier by the second.

"Uh... yes." I feel immeasurably stupid; I am blatantly out of the loop. I've never liked not knowing things. It's one of the reasons I used to make such a good lawyer.

"Not many of them left," pipes up the redheaded detective who's co-opted Olivia's seat. He spins around in his chair, his long legs stretching lazily in front of him. "I think only Fin used to work with them."

"Odafin Tutuola?" I blurt, jumping at the first familiar name I hear. "He's still here?"

"Yes, he's one of our detectives," answers Fong. She's eyeing me suspiciously.

The redheaded officer, however, is all chuckles. "Yeah, he's one of the few left over after the big sweep."

"O'Connell," Fong barks. "Aren't you working on a case?"

The smile dies on his face. "Yes, ma'am."

"The big sweep?" I press her, trying to conceal my mounting anxiety. "What happened?"

She looks at me incredulously. "You've got to be kidding. Are you from out of town, sweetheart?"

I can't keep the impatience off my face. "What does that mean?"

Fong is silent for a long moment. Her lower jaw moves back and forth as she contemplates what to tell me.

"Perhaps I'd better just put you in touch with Fin," she says coolly, reaching for a pad of paper.

-END CHAPTER 1-


	3. Chapter 2: Fin

Title: The Turning of the Leaves  
Author: Mercaque  
Rating: R  
Summary: Three years after the events of "Loss," Alex Cabot is told it's safe to return to New York City. But is she ready for the tremendous changes that await her?

* * *

CHAPTER 2

I press the doorbell hesitantly.

The scrap of paper clutched in my gloved hand says this is the right place. But for a brief, irrational, stomach-churning moment, I fear that I have the wrong apartment, that Fong and her crew have sent me on a wild goose chase.

But the door opens, and surely enough, Odafin Tutuola stands before me. Clad in baggy black jeans and a red basketball jersey, he still wears the same goatee, the same slicked-back ponytail, and his eyes still carry the same no-nonsense gleam. The familiarity washes over me, warming my heart. I unconsciously break into a wide grin.

"Can I help y..." Fin begins professionally. He starts to give me the classic size-up – it's something I've noticed police officers do to nearly everyone they meet, whether they're conscious of it or not. But shock interrupts his appraisal as he realizes exactly who I am.

"Sweet holy Jesus," he whispers. His clear eyes are the size of dinner plates, and he's literally slackjawed for a good forty-five seconds.

"Hi, Fin," I answer softly, uncertain how to diffuse his astonishment. "I guess you could say I'm back from the dead."

My attempt at humor, weak though it was, doesn't even register. His lips are still parted slightly in shock. "What... is this?"

Still feeling like an idiot, I glance up and down the hall. "I'd really rather not discuss it here."

"O... of course," he agrees, his eyes still wide. He opens the door and gestures me inside his small, functional apartment.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks. It's an odd, forced gesture of hospitality that's completely at odds with the bewilderment on his face. "Tea?"

I nod, taking in my surroundings. "I'd like that, thanks."

"Have a seat on the couch," he says, waving me over to a brown leather sofa.

I seat myself and watch him move off toward the kitchen. And then I slap a hand to my mouth, fighting back a sudden gasp.

Fin's stride is jerky and uneven, and he's dragging his left leg painfully across the floor in a severe limp.

A million possibilities fly through my mind. I'm still staring at him in shock when he hobbles out of the kitchen a few moments later and flops down in a chair across from me.

I know my dumbstruck expression is unforgivably rude, but I can't quite muster the right words to ask what happened. The silence is so absolute I can practically hear the water boiling in the kitchen.

After a few awkward minutes, we share a burst of nervous laughter.

"I'll be honest, I don't know where to start," I tell him, my voice shaky and forced.

"You think you don't know where to start?" Fin answers. "Far as I know, I'm talking to a dead woman."

"I... well, obviously not," I tell him. I'm struck by fear as I realize he's going to be the first person outside my family – and Olivia and Elliot – to know I went into the protection program. I know I have no reason to distrust him, but my throat seems to close up in fear. I end up weakly attempting to skirt the subject. "There was nobody left down at the station."

Fin's expression sours. "Yeah, well."

"What happened?"

"First I want to know what happened to you," he insists. "Last I heard, you got shot by a Colombian drug lord."

"Well, I did," I answer tartly. I feel some of the fire of my old life return. "But last I heard, the death of said Colombian drug lord meant I could come out of the witness protection program." I panic slightly; I don't like saying those last three words out loud.

Fin blinks, digesting that. His disbelief hasn't completely abated, but he nods. "Fair enough."

"So what happened to everyone?" I press gently.

Fin sighs tiredly. "It's a long damn story." He cocks an eyebrow at me. "You didn't read the papers or nothin' while you were away, did you?"

"N... no," I admit, gazing awkwardly at my hands. It's the second time in as many hours I've been reminded of my own ignorance. I feel like a fool for having kept myself so isolated. "I didn't really..." My voice is thick. "I didn't want to know what was happening back home, not while I couldn't..."

"Hey," Fin says gently. He hauls himself painfully out of his chair and lurches over to sit beside me. "It's all right." I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You probably ain't gonna like what I have to tell you, though."

My stomach turns to ice. What the hell could have happened?

"Just tell me," I ask softly. I don't trust my voice to go any louder.

Fin sighs. When he speaks, his voice has a rehearsed flatness to it. "Well for starters, Cragen's dead."

"What?" I gasp.

"Heart attack," he continues without waiting for me to ask. "Doctors said the years of alcoholism finally caught up with him. We'd been dealing with some pretty stressful cases..." Fin trails off, his voice strained. "He was a good man."

"He was," I agree dumbly. I briefly wonder where he's buried.

"After that," Fin says, "well, we were in some disarray after he died. I never really thought about how much he held our unit together, but after he was gone..." He pauses. "They brought in some acting captains, but not many people were willing to stay in special victims for long. We really started to come apart at the seams." He dropped his hand to his injured leg with a loud slap. "Matter of fact, that's how I got this."

"I..." I swallow hard. "How?"

"Hmph," he grunts. "We're chasin' down some kiddy molester, and we're supposed to have backup, right? Well, our acting captain had quit that day – said he couldn't take another kid case." Fin's jaw ticks with suppressed fury. "Like I said, it was disarray. Munch had to call for backup. He was tryin' to coordinate everything while I ran down this perp, but fuck. He couldn't do all that himself and watch my back at the same time. Perp could've gone anywhere in the whole damn neighborhood." At the mention of Munch's name, I see a flash of pain in his eyes. "Anyway, long story short, I got broadsided by one of our own squad cars while I was chasin' this guy across the street. Ended up in the hospital for a good two and a half months, and that was AFTER I came out of a weeklong coma." He shivers. "I'm pretty lucky to be here."

I nod mutely; any agreement I can think of feels trite. "Munch must have been pretty upset."

Fin nods sourly. "Yeah, I think he felt responsible. But shit, wasn't his fault the jackass tried to run away."

There's a long silence. Fin's eyes are unsettled. I can tell he came to terms with those experiences some time ago, but dredging them up again is difficult.

The kettle whistles suddenly in the kitchen.

"I'll get it," I offer, hastily jumping up.

Fin gives me a heavy-lidded look. "Don't tell me you pity the cripple."

My jaw hangs open for a shame-filled moment before he breaks into a smile and chucks me on the arm.

"I'm messing with you." He rises slowly and shuffles toward the kitchen.

I trail after him uncertainly. His kitchen is small and sparse, but comfortable. I lean against the counter, and we share a companionable moment of silence as he pours the hot water.

"Speaking of Munch," Fin says, pulling a carton of milk out of the refrigerator, "I know he'd love to hear from you."

"I... really?" I suppress the urge to ask if he'd also died unexpectedly while I was gone.

"Yeah," Fin answers, as if appalled I'd even suggest otherwise. "In fact, I could probably give him a call right now. You cool?"

"Yeah." I smile. "I would like that."

"All right," Fin agrees with a smile. "Haven't seen that cat in a while anyway."

-END CHAPTER 2-


	4. Chapter 3: Munch and Fin

Title: The Turning of the Leaves  
Author: Mercaque  
Rating: PG-13  
Genre: Drama  
Author's Notes: See end of chapter  
Summary: Three years after the events of "Loss," Alex Cabot its told it's safe to return to New York City. But is she ready for the tremendous changes that await her?  
Disclaimer: SVU characters belong to Dick Wolf. Original characters, such as they are, belong to me.

* * *

CHAPTER 3

Fin and I end up abandoning our tea in favor of meeting Munch at a neighborhood diner.

He had elected not to mention my presence to Munch over the phone, something for which I'm secretly glad. I haven't mentioned any critical information over the phone in three years; I still carry a residual, and admittedly irrational, fear of phone taps. All Fin would say was that Munch HAD to be there for lunch.

It's a short drive to the diner, and I spend most of my time peering out the car window like a little girl. Normally I'd feel self-conscious, but not today. Today, I'm back in the city, and even beneath the cold marbled sky, Queens' neighborhoods pulse with life. Fin is quiet for most of the drive, but when I glance at him in the rearview mirror, I see an indulgent smile curving his lips.

We nab a parking spot just down the street from the diner. Though the walk is only a block, it proves surprisingly grueling. The stinging cold air brings painful tears to my eyes and chafes my exposed ears. From the looks of it, Fin doesn't have it much better as he ducks his head against the fierce wind.

It still pains me to watch him limp laboriously alongside me. I'm half tempted to give him my arm, to help him along, but I know the gesture would do little more than patronize him and embarrass me. I settle for keeping my stride deliberately slow – but hopefully, still natural – so as not to accidentally outpace him. With a pang of guilt, I wonder if he can tell that's what I'm doing.

I bite my lip self-consciously and look forward, narrowing my eyes against the wind.

And that's when I spot John Munch.

His spindly frame is unmistakable, as are his black hat, black overcoat and dark red sunglasses. He's leaning just outside the diner door, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his thin shoulders hunched against the merciless wind.

My heart thunders in my chest, just as it did when I stood on Fin's doorstep. I'm almost afraid to see him – especially after the rude surprises I got from Fin – but for all that, I cannot deny that I'm tremendously happy to see him, happy that he's alive. I feel my stride quicken involuntarily.

Munch straightens when he notices us approaching, lifting his hand in a casual wave. But he stops abruptly when he sees Fin is not alone. As we approach, he cocks his head and peers closer.

And his mouth falls open in raw shock as he realizes who I am.

"Hey, Munch." Fin's greeting is casual, as if there's nothing out of the ordinary.

"Cabot...?" Munch breathes. He pulls off his sunglasses and stares openly, his weatherbeaten features softening with shock, with disbelief, with wonder. His voice is brittle. "I must be getting delusional in my old age..."

"I told you this'd be worth your time." Fin smiles encouragingly at the older man.

"You didn't mention this to me." Munch's voice is a strained murmur. His eyes rake me over several times before settling on my face, as if it takes him that many tries to accept what he's seeing. "I thought you were..."

"I know," I interrupt as gently as possible, almost wishing he'd greeted me with one of his typically acerbic bon mots. I'd always thought of Munch as one of life's constants – the same black wardrobe, the same dry presence, the same vinegared barbs. To see him actually display naked emotion at my return... it's unnerving. Did he always have the same weary melancholy, or had I simply forgotten it in the fog of the last three years?

It takes me a moment to find my voice again. "Why don't we head in, and we can talk?"

Munch nods and replaces his sunglasses. His wry demeanor finally returns, but it seems somehow worn and tired. His eyes still flicker with incredulity.

A final, harsh gust of wind follows us into the diner. As we remove our jackets – and Munch and Fin their hats – I glance around. Battered wooden booths line the dark walls, each lit only by the muted golden light of a tiny tabletop lamp. The air smells of coffee, old smoke and hot greasy breakfasts. Dim and cavelike though it is, the restaurant buzzes with life; it's a sea of clinking silverware and chattering customers and harried waitresses.

For all the noise, this place feels cozy. Secretive, even. I feel myself relax slightly.

Fin jerks his head to catch a plump, blonde waitress' attention. "Three, please."

She nods, and in moments, she's leading us toward a boxy, high-backed booth in the back of the restaurant.

As we're walking to the table – shambling, really, to keep pace with Fin – Munch speaks quietly. "It's..." He stops. "If it's really you, I'm glad to have you back."

"Thank you," I answer quietly. Again, my chest constricts at the genuine emotion in his voice.

The waitress – Marie, her nametag says – gestures us briskly into our seats and passes out menus. Grunting, Fin lowers himself stiffly into the booth. Munch hovers over him for a moment, holding out his arm in a useless attempt to help; Fin rejects the gesture with an impatient shake of his head. The older detective's shoulders sag defeatedly before he slides in next to Fin.

It's a mystifying exchange, but I decide to ignore it for now. I'm not comfortable enough to inquire just yet. Feigning obliviousness, I slide into the opposite seat and order a cup of coffee. Munch and Fin order the same, and Marie jots it down and bustles away.

"So would someone care to explain what's going on here?" Munch asks when she's safely out of earshot. "I appear to be the only person at this table who's not on board the clue train."

"Well..." I begin nervously. Suddenly, lunch seems like a bad idea; I'm not certain I want to explain this in a public place. The same irrational anxiety is rising in my throat, and I'm struggling to push it down. "You see, after Zapata..."

"Hey." Fin holds up a knowing hand, interrupting me. "I got it." He claps Munch's thin arm, leans in, and whispers briefly to the older man.

"I see," Munch says quietly, a look of comprehension dawning on his face.

I give him a long, apologetic glance before turning to Fin. "Thanks."

"No problem," Fin answers with a calm smile. "I figure you're going to be explaining this plenty of times as it is."

"Yeah," I laugh self-consciously. In reality, it's only just hit me that I'm probably going to have to have a separate "I was in the witness protection program" conversation with every single person I'd left behind.

"That's how it is with the leg," Fin continues, his clear eyes filled with dry sympathy. "Everybody I meet's gotta ask sooner or later."

Munch's eyes flicker guiltily to his ex-partner, but he says nothing.

I feel a sudden stab of remorse as I recall my own dumbstruck reaction to Fin's injury. My voice is low, apologetic. "I didn't mean to make you do that again."

"Oh come on now," Fin laughs, "you're a pretty exceptional circumstance. You've been gone for – how many years now? I'm sure my crippledom ain't the most burning question you're going to have." He sits back and smiles gently. "Besides, as I recall, I brought it up."

"Yeah," I muse. "You're right about that — about the questions, I mean."

Munch leans forward. "May I ask where you were?"

"Town called Annapolis." I'm startled realize the last three years already feel like a long, gray coma.

"Annapolis, Maryland?!" Munch's eyebrows shoot up from behind his sunglasses, and for the first time, he seems to truly come alive. "You've got to be kidding me. I spent 20 years working homicide in the festering hellhole known as Baltimore."

"That's right," I reply. My eyes lock with his for a moment, and I feel a surge of affinity with the veteran detective. A small – but very real – smile breaks across my face. "I don't think I ever made it up there, though."

"Well, count your blessings," he snorts derisively. "Although, with 20/20 hindsight, I realize I should've gone for the Annapolis homicide unit. I would've only had to work about once every two years."

"Trust me, that gets pretty old after a while." I laugh. "I just spent the last three years doing nothing but busy work."

Munch grimaces. "These days, I'd kill for even that much."

"You're not...?" Somehow, I'd just assumed he had transferred to another unit.

"Retired." He smiles, but it's bitter. "Second time in less than a decade, which I'm sure is some kind of record."

I open my mouth to ask, but get interrupted by Marie's return to our table. She sets three mugs of steaming black coffee before us. After taking our lunch orders – a pastrami on rye for Munch and "breakfast" for myself and Fin – she once again hurries away.

The table is quiet for a long moment; nobody's quite sure how to pick the conversation up again. I swirl the spoon around in my coffee, listening to the subdued roar of the diner around me and contemplating my next question. The precinct had been so different, I muse. I hadn't known anybody; I'd felt like an intruder in a workplace that had once been filled with friends.

I think back to the seemingly interminable hours I spent filing papers and organizing databanks in my Annapolis office job. How much time did I waste, while Fin got injured, while Cragen passed away, while the entire special victims unit was apparently turned on its head?

"What the hell happened to everybody?" I finally blurt out. "I went down to the precinct this morning..." I wave my spoon for an inarticulate moment. "There was nobody there."

Fin purses his lips sympathetically before murmuring to his former partner. "She doesn't know about – you know, the sweep."

"Ah." Munch tilts his head at me sympathetically.

Fin takes a slow sip of coffee. "To be honest, that's why I wanted to get Munch down here. I missed a lot of this stuff when I was in the hospital."

"I take it you weren't a regular subscriber to the city papers?" Munch asks. "The headline writers down at the Post spared no opportunity to sharpen their pens..."

"No, I wasn't." I'm trying to keep it light, but my voice has an impatient edge I can't entirely control.

"Well, you missed out on quite the scandal." From his tone of voice, it's as if I skipped the office Christmas party. "Although the DA's office was actually one of the few parties to emerge with its honor intact. Which is impressive, considering we managed to get several major law enforcement agencies and a few organized crime syndicates involved, plus god knows who else."

"He finally got to be part of one of his own conspiracy theories," Fin cuts in with a lopsided smile.

"Hey, I was only an accessory," Munch protests bitingly. "I wasn't involved in the actual conspiracy. Which, by the way, was no mere 'theory' this time."

"Whatever. They still got you for it," Fin chuckles.

"Come on, it was hard not to be involved," Munch answers, his features enlivened by a wry chuckle. "Everybody and their mother got indicted at some point. I wouldn't be surprised if COMINTERN had resurrected itself to lend a hand."

"Excuse my bluntness," I interrupt, "but what the hell are you two talking about?"

The two men share a surprised laugh, and even I have to chuckle at their embarrassed expressions.

"Where do I even begin?" Munch muses. "A lot went down while you were gone..."

I resist the urge to throttle him; if nothing else, I am well aware of that particular fact. I fire a shot in the dark. "Okay, where's Olivia?"

Both men freeze, the smiles dying instantly on their faces.

"Olivia..." Munch hedges, his thin shoulders sinking. "Maybe I'd better start from the beginning."

"All right," I answer with a calmness I do not feel. My heart pounds as I wonder what could have happened to inspire such an eerie reaction.

"You know she was pretty upset when you, uh... died," Munch begins hesitantly.

"Yeah, I do," I murmur, remembering our final goodbye. I wanted to say so much to her, but the DEA guys were pulling me away and her brown eyes were filling with tears...

"You do?" Munch asks in surprise.

"I—" It's not my fault they weren't told the truth, but I feel guilty all the same. "I saw them right before I left."

"You saw them?" Munch looks marginally hurt. His gaze slides sideways to meet Fin's. "I'm insulted. Were YOU invited to this little soiree?"  
  
"No," Fin answers. "I'm feelin' a bit left out myself."

"It wasn't like that," I protest. "I had to beg and plead to get them to let me see anybody. I didn't exactly have the run of things, I had just been shot, and they were sworn to secrecy..."

"Whoa, relax," Fin interrupts, laughing. "Look, I used to work narcotics – I know the kind of hiding you need to do to get away from the Cartel. I probably wouldn't respect Elliot and Olivia if they HAD told me."

"Well, I would," Munch retorts. "I'll have to take it up with our esteemed former colleagues the next time I see them."

"Yeah, like that's going to be anytime soon," Fin mumbles. He's joking, but the older detective seems slightly wounded by the comment.

"What do you mean, that's not going to be anytime soon?" I cut in anxiously. "What happened?"

"It ain't the detectives, it's " Fin begins, but he stops guiltily short. "Anyway, about Olivia..."

Munch scowls briefly before resuming the story. "Yes, Olivia. She... didn't take it very well when you left. You know, she'd lost her mother a relatively short time earlier. Then we all lost Don..." He trails off, shaking his head. "And then we all entered into a time I fondly refer to as the dark ages."

"Remember how I told you we had a lot of disarray after Cragen died?" Fin interjects. "That was the dark ages."

"I'm sure our various replacement captains were very nice people," Munch says, his voice curdling slightly. "But – to make something of an understatement – they weren't cut out for special victims. We had about as much hope for competent leadership as George W. Bush does of finishing_ Crime and Punishment_. Long story short, morale dropped through the floor." His gaze flickers to Fin for a painful moment. "Especially after one of our star detectives wound up in the hospital."

Fin gives his former partner a long look – somewhere between frustration and pity – before making a pointed attempt to get the discussion back on track. "But Olivia did open up to some people, right?"

"Yeah." Munch's expression is still pained, but he pulls himself back to the conversation at hand. "For starters, we still had an in-house shrink. Talk about a job you couldn't pay me enough to do."

"Doctor Huang?" I ask, holding back a sudden flood of curiosity as to his whereabouts.

Munch nods. "He and Olivia became rather close after your 'death.'" A perturbed look crosses his face. "Not close in a 'Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice' sort of way, although some people speculated. Made for a very interesting office pool, at least."

I can't keep a vaguely disturbed look off my face as I contemplate the possibility of Olivia and George Huang having an affair.

Fin catches my eye and chuckles. "Wasn't like that at all," he laughs. "TRUST me."

I cock my head, wondering exactly what that means. But before I can ask, our waitress returns with lunch. Marie sets three plates before us, and for the first time in ages, I find myself ravenously, painfully hungry. I don't know if I'm happy to be back in the city, or if I'm just eating more in response to the cold weather. But whatever the reason, I dig into my eggs and toast and fruit with a sudden vigor.

From the looks of it, Munch and Fin are equally hungry. We spend a busily quiet moment eating before Munch picks up the conversation again.

"Meanwhile," he continues, blithely waving his sandwich, "Olivia had also gotten chummy with some guys from the narcotics unit. Said she was thinking about a transfer. I couldn't really blame her, considering the sorry state of our dear leaders."

"I had put her in touch with some guys I used to work with," Fin adds. "Thought she could use all the friends she could get."

"Ouch," I murmur.

He winces. "Didn't quite mean it like that." He chews thoughtfully on a slice of toast for a moment. "To be honest, I also thought narcotics could use a good cop like Olivia. 'Cause at the time, they were straight-up drowning."

"Drowning?" I ask. This is news to me.

Munch nods. "In you name it. Drugs, informants, corpses..."

I put down my fork in surprise. "They were? Why?"

"Well, that all goes back to our old friend Cesar Velez." Munch leans back and eyes me over the rims of his sunglasses.

"Oh, really?" I'm trying to sound casual, but there's a faint tremor of fear in my voice. Rationally, I know he's no longer a threat to me; emotionally, I still half-expect him to leap out of the shadows.

Munch nods. "The Cartel was doing what all those self-important Wall Street goons love to drone on about – diversifying their portfolio. Meaning they were trying to expand beyond their little mom-and-pop cocaine business."

"They had their eyes on opium," Fin informs me through a mouthful of toast. He swallows. "Problem is, the opium market's already pretty much Triad territory. They're Chinese, and they run it out of the Golden Triangle."

"Okay," I agree. I had never really paid attention to drug wars in my time as an ADA. This is getting awfully close to going over my head – and I'm still not sure how this relates to a scandal.

"Now," Munch continues, "as a result of Velez's entrepreneurial spirit, the Cartel began to push up against the Triads, who naturally started pushing back. Before you know it, the NYPD – and narcotics in particular – is stuck playing janitor to a low-level gang war." He exhales sharply, shaking his head in disgust.

"My god," I murmur, trying to imagine what the climate in the city must have been like.

"Yeah, well, the good news is that it didn't last forever," Munch says. "The bad news is that was mainly due to a series of sweeping victories by the Triads."

"That's putting it mildly," Fin laughs. "The Triads took the Cartel to_ school_. They started intercepting some key shipments, and when Velez's guys retaliated, they killed off three local Colombian big shots."

"The type of efficiency the DEA can only dream about," Munch snorts.

I nod, taking all that in. Though I'm still not completely sure where this story is going, I feel a morbid vindication at the Cartel's misfortunes. I know the Triads are probably no better than Cesar Velez, but with a prick of guilt, I realize I don't care. That Velez's cronies – men like Raphael Zapata – should die at the hands of brutal drug lords almost feels like poetic justice.

"Now, how do you think the Triads suddenly made this great leap forward?" Munch interrupts my thoughts.

Startled, I jerk back to attention. "I don't know. How?"

"Well, funny you should ask, since the FBI started to wonder the same thing." He lifts an eyebrow. "Especially since the information upon which the Triads appeared to be acting was suspiciously similar to information its own agents had collected."

I'm puzzled for a minute, but then the answer hits me. "You're saying there was a leak."

"Right," he agrees. "The Feds started investigating. Three guesses where they traced it to."

I look nervously from Munch to Fin and back. I have a creeping feeling I'm not going to like the answer to this. I shrug helplessly.

Fin spits it out bitterly. "Narcotics unit. NYPD."

"What?" I demand. My head is beginning to swim. "Let me get this straight. You're saying the narcotics unit gave the Triads information the FBI had collected."

"I knew you were a feared prosecutor for a reason." Munch is teasing, but there's no malice in his voice.

"But that doesn't make any sense." I feel hopelessly out of the loop, and I don't even want to fathom what this might have to do with Olivia.

"Sure it does," Munch answers. "Narcotics had simply decided to divide and conquer. You know, even the playing field. Let the Cartel and the Triads pick each other off, then move in for the kill." He shrugs. "I like to think of it as outsourcing."

"But you're talking about directly assisting gang warfare," I protest sharply.

"Look, you saw what the Cartel is like." Fin leans forward suddenly, his voice low and grave. "They're fuckin' ruthless, and we can't even play by their rules. We're the NYPD, and we have to follow procedure. We can't just blow people up in their cars when they get in our way."

"Yeah, only the CIA is allowed to do that," Munch chimes in.

I laugh bitterly. The mention of car bombs is painful; Tim Donovan's earnest face floats up in my mind.

"It's like we were fighting them with one hand tied behind our back," Fin continues. "Some people felt that helping the Triads was like bringing in a friend who could fight with both hands."

"Both hands and brass knuckles," Munch mutters.

I sit back and stab defeatedly at my scrambled eggs. I hadn't had a problem with the Triads killing Velez; why should I have a problem with the NYPD helping them do so? Because, I answer myself, it's one thing for the Triads to be corrupt. It's quite another for the NYPD to get in bed with them.

My shoulders sag. Those youthful, fresh-out-of-law-school ideals I once had suddenly seem even more hazy and remote than when I was living in Annapolis.

"Okay," I finally acknowledge. "So what happened?"

"Well, unfortunately for narcotics, they neglected to inform anybody else of this little war plan," Munch replies. "Including the brass."

"Not that the brass would've helped," Fin interrupts bitterly. "You gotta keep in mind, the FBI, and the DEA for that matter, they hate to share information. You saw that – you know, on your case." He doesn't need to elaborate; I know he means the Zapata case.

I nod grimly. "They certainly knew how to stonewall."

"Exactly," Munch says. "The FBI, in particular, is known for its tightfisted attitude towards its 'intelligence' – although I use the term loosely. They immediately launched an investigation."

"Yeah..." I prod him along cautiously.

Munch's lips tighten. "And, since the information was helping a Chinese gang, who do you think they targeted in their investigation?"

My gaze darts nervously to the side. "Who?"

"Racial profiling," Fin grumbles. "Except they hit the Asians this time."

"Now, think about it," Munch says quietly. "Who's the FBI agent you know best who might happen to fit that profile?"

My stomach quietly flips over. I don't want to say it out loud, but... "Doctor Huang, of course."

The older detective nods cryptically. "Indeed."

"Indeed what, exactly?" I demand.

Munch's lips tighten. "Something the good doctor did – and I'd love to know exactly what – caught the investigators' attention. They managed to connect him to Olivia, and Olivia to narcotics."

"Rumor was he failed a psych test," Fin murmurs.

Munch turns to him with a look of surprise. "What, really?"

"Yeah, shrinks get tested all the time," Fin replies.

"Excuse me, what?" My voice is a little shriller than I intend; out of the corner of my eye, I see the heads of nearby diners turn. "What the hell do you mean by 'connected them'?"

"Not so loud," Fin murmurs.

"Connected them, as in, traced the flow of information," Munch clarifies. He gives me a knowing look over the rims of his shades. "From the FBI to narcotics to the Triads. Don't ask me the specifics."

"Oh, come on," I scoff. "There is no possible way. He's a psychiatrist, for god's sake."

"Well, that's what everybody thought." Munch's voice is subdued. "Until he confessed."

"What?" I gasp. I sit back, reeling in shock. I can't muster anything above a murmur of denial. "That's impossible. There's just no way..."

"Apparently, there was," Munch answers. "I'd say I gained a bit of respect for the guy."

"You would," Fin laughs.

"Well, think about it. You'd never suspect Huang of stealing office supplies, much less classified information. It was brilliant."

I close my eyes and press a hand to my forehead. I'm dimly aware that Munch and Fin are still talking, but their conversation is fading into silence along with the rest of the ambient noise of the diner. All I can hear is my own mind insisting that this cannot, cannot, cannot be what happened. My previously ravenous appetite is gone; I feel downright nauseous when I look at the remaining food on my plate.

"...I know. It's a fuckin' travesty," Fin is saying when I finally rejoin their conversation. "I knew a lot of those guys. Not to mention Olivia..."

"What happened to them?" I finally force myself to ask. Even my own flat, numb voice sounds like it's coming from someone else.

Munch eyes me for a sympathetic moment before answering. "Olivia went to prison."

I nod dumbly, trying to force back tears at the mental image. "And Huang?"

"He only got fired – FBI privilege, apparently." He chuckles, but it's humorless. "He's in some desk job down at Bellevue now. If you ask me, Olivia got the better deal."

I let out a heavy breath, as though my body wants to expel the news I've just heard. I'm almost afraid to ask anything more, but I have to. "What about Elliot?"

"Hoo, boy," Munch sighs. "Obstruction charge."

I close my eyes briefly. At this point, it just seems natural that the scandal reached him too. "Dare I even ask?"

Munch grimaces. "Look, it's an office full of detectives. We all figured out sooner or later that Olivia's extracurricular activities weren't completely legit, including Elliot." He sighs. "No, _especially_ Elliot. He was her partner, after all."

"He stayed loyal, you gotta give him that," says Fin.

"Yeah, unfortunately, that loyalty included furnishing Olivia with a series of false alibis," Munch answers. "Of course, that wasn't the only thing they got him for, but it was probably the most blatant."

"What happened to him?"

"He's on probation," Munch answers. "They shuffled him off to Children's Services in Jersey. Again, Olivia probably got the better deal..."

Fin shrugs matter-of-factly, ignoring Munch's joke. "It wasn't an entirely bad move for him. He was startin' to stress a little too much in special victims."

"Well, didn't we all?" I ask, remembering some of the worse crimes I'd had to prosecute.

"I guess so," Fin answers dubiously. I tilt my head curiously, wondering if there's more to the story than mere stress.

"Elliot's real punishment," Munch interrupts, "was Kathy's reaction when she found out he was throwing his career out the window for Olivia's sake. I'm sure you can imagine how thrilled she was to get THAT news." Munch shakes his head. "He got a pink slip and divorce papers on the same day, a feat even_ I _ can't claim to have accomplished."

"Jesus Christ," I breathe.

"You said it," Fin agrees quietly.

My chest feels tight. Olivia, Huang, Elliot... ruined. To say nothing of Cragen, or even the hobbled Fin...

I look up at Munch, suddenly realizing he's left himself entirely out of the story. "What about you?"

A lazy smile lifts one side of his mouth. "Oh, they got me for obstruction too."

"What!"

He sits back with a self-satisfied grin. "I just told them I saw no evil, heard no evil, and spoke no evil. In return, I was 'strongly encouraged' to take an early retirement package."

"What, with benefits and everything?"

"You think I'd take it if I didn't?" Munch smirks. "Besides, it got me away from that goose-stepping idiot I had for a partner."

"Hey, that goose-stepping idiot's _my _ partner now," Fin answers with a grim laugh. He looks up at me. "You didn't happen to see a blond buzzed guy down at the precinct, did you?"

I dimly remember someone matching that description. "Yeah, kind of intense?"

Fin rolls his eyes. "That's him. Guy named Strauss. Used to be Munch's partner, until he narced."

"Narced?" I ask.

"Told the investigators Munch knew more than he was letting on." Fin looks disgusted.

Munch sighs melodramatically. "I should've known a guy named Strauss would like nothing better than to turn a Jew over to the authorities."

Fin laughs. "I knew you needed my black ass."

"I never doubted it," Munch answers. His smile vanishes suddenly, a shadow of guilt creeping into its place. His gaunt shoulders sag quietly.

His abrupt shift in mood seems to infect the whole table. Fin's encouraging smile fades as well; his eyes have that same mixture of frustration and pity as before. I remember Fin telling me that Munch felt responsible for his injury, and I now realize that if anything, he was understating matters. From the looks of it, Munch is being eaten alive with remorse.

I open my mouth helplessly, wanting to offer something that will make things right, but I have no idea what to say.

"Wasn't your fault, man," Fin finally murmurs. "How many times I gotta tell you?"

Munch seems to deflate even further. After a long moment, he attempts a casual shrug; the gesture is so forced it has the exact opposite effect. "Just forget it, all right?"

"Hey, I have," Fin shoots back. "It's _you_ who can't let it go."

"For god's sake, how could I?" Munch's voice breaks. "You have no idea what you looked like..."

"Look, my old partner took a bullet for me, you think I don't still feel that every day?" Fin cries. "But you know what? I learned how to live with it. I moved the fuck on. I didn't become some goddamn recluse."

My gaze swings over to Munch in surprise; I always knew he'd been a solitary figure, but this accusation is new.

"Oh, that's your attitude now?" Munch's voice drips acid. "I thought it was my fault you were, and I quote, 'a fucking cripple.' Now, what? I'm supposed to be part of the neighborhood welcome wagon?"

"You know I didn't mean that," Fin protests defensively. "I was frustrated..."

Munch shakes his head and looks away.

A strained silence descends. Again, I want desperately to say something, to bridge the chasm that seems to have opened up between the two men, but I can think of nothing that seems remotely appropriate.

After a long moment, Munch murmurs softly to no one in particular. "You were right, though."

Fin's eyes flutter closed; he seems to have lost the will to fight. "Whatever."

We sit in tense silence for the remainder of the meal. It's an unspoken relief when Marie returns and obliviously drops our check on the table.

* * *

When we part ways outside the diner, I'm still reeling – from the news of my old colleagues and from the bizarre turn of conversation at the end. Munch and I share a brief hug and a promise to keep in touch, but the awkwardness is so thick I'm not sure how likely that is.

After Munch leaves, Fin and I head back to the car. The uneasy silence seems to follow us; I'm not sure how to address what just happened.

Fortunately, I don't have to.

"You're probably wonderin' what the hell that was about." Fin glances at me hesitantly.

"Oh – well..." I hedge. I'm afraid to pry too deeply, but then again, he brought it up. "What did you mean by 'a goddamn recluse'?"

Fin grimaces. "Munch doesn't get out much since he lost his job," he answers. "He doesn't have too many people in his life, you know? No wife, no kids, no job. I try and do what I can, but..." He shrugs helplessly.

A cold shiver runs down my back; only three weeks ago, my existence felt equally bleak. "I guess he doesn't think he has anything to look forward to."

His gaze swings to me. "That's exactly what worries me." His jaw tightens. "You know his dad killed himself?"

I feel my heart drop out. That possibility hadn't even occurred to me. "No, I didn't."

"Don't know the details. But they say that kind of thing tends to run in families." Fin shakes his head. "That's what really worries me."

"Yeah," I answer quietly. With a sudden surge of determination, I decide I'm going to reach out to Munch as much as possible. I'm re-establishing ties with everybody else, so I may as well make the extra effort. It's something I might have appreciated in Annapolis...

"I just gotta say, I think you were good for him." When Fin speaks, it's as if he's reading my thoughts. "Today was the first time I saw any of the old Munch."

I blink, startled and a little embarrassed at the compliment. "Well, you seem to be doing a good deal for him," I offer.

Fin scowls. "Whatever. I'm a reminder of something he'd rather forget."

"He'll appreciate it someday." I clap Fin on the shoulder. It's a weak gesture of camaraderie, but it's all I have. "I know I would."

-END CHAPTER 3-

* * *

A/N: Whew! This chapter was really tough to write, partially because there's so much exposition and partially because Munch and Fin are always a challenge to capture on paper. I hope you enjoyed it. Of course, even if you didn't, constructive criticism is always welcome.

The scandal described above is actually "ripped from the headlines" (ha) – it's loosely based on a scandal that involved the FBI in Boston, which really did assist rival gangs in order to take down the local mafia. Very few – if any – of the agents received anything more than token punishments, so that aspect of the story is true as well. (In fact, one of the earliest drafts of this story had Huang going to prison too, but I couldn't for the LIFE of me find any stories or information on FBI agents being incarcerated. Except in international espionage cases, but that didn't really seem to apply here.)

It's also true that the FBI is notorious for not sharing information with local law enforcement agencies, including the NYPD, and that real resentment exists on that score.

Looking up organized crime and drug running also turned out to be pretty interesting. The BBC, in particular, was a good source of information. (For example, that's where I learned the Cartel actually does dabble in the opium trade.) The so-called "Triads," on the other hand, were "borrowed" from Grand Theft Auto III – mainly because even the real Chinese gang names I found sounded kinda fakey within the story.

On the other end of the knowledge spectrum, I went through several drafts of this chapter before it hit me that Munch was previously in Baltimore. I put Cabot in Annapolis mainly because I used to live there and I thought I could describe it pretty well – turned out to be a nifty coincidence, eh?

If you've read this far... well, first of all, thanks! And second of all, you're probably wondering what the heck was going on with Huang. Worry not – we'll hear it straight from the horse's mouth in the next installment.


	5. Chapter 4: Huang

Title: The Turning of the LeavesAuthor: Mercaque   
Rating: PG-13   
Summary: Three years after the events of "Loss," Alex Cabot is told it's safe to return to New York City. But is she ready for the tremendous changes that await her?   
Author's Notes: Just to be clear – despite my earlier stories, this is NOT a CabotHuang fic. More notes at the end of the chapter. Also, this chapter was reposted to fix a silly grammar error.   
Disclaimer: SVU characters belong to Dick Wolf. Original characters, such as they are, belong to me.

* * *

CHAPTER 4 

Bellevue's Old Administration Building is a red-brick monolith rising into the desolate, slate-gray sky.

I arrive late in the afternoon. The air is thick, cold and moist – as though the dark clouds above are ready to burst with freezing rain. I rub my gloved hands together, trying futilely to warm my stiff fingers as I hurry inside.

The interior of the building contrasts sharply with the outside. Bellevue's mazelike corridors are cramped and bright, their sterile white floors flooded with fluorescent light.

Huang's office is tucked away on the third floor, and finding it is a challenge. The receptionist gives me the office number and little more than a sympathetic smile as she wishes me luck. I look down at the piece of paper in my hand; Huang's office number is scribbled just below where Karen Fong wrote Fin's address earlier this morning. Was I really at the precinct just this morning? It already feels like ten years ago.

345...349...350...

The extra walking gives me time to mull over what I've heard from Fin and Munch. My memories of George Huang are of an unflappably gentle man with rock-solid ethics. I'd always enjoyed a certain intellectual rapport with him – even when he challenged me, I had to respect his reason and impartiality. It felt like a real meeting of the minds, and I'd eventually come to think of him as one of my better work friends. The idea of him being involved in a crime is frankly unimaginable.

352... 353... 355...

But thinking about it further, I'm forced to admit that I knew nothing of Huang's life outside work. I don't know a thing about his home or family, I have little concept of his extracurricular interests, and for that matter, I have no idea if he's married, divorced, or simply a confirmed bachelor. With a prick of remorse, I almost have to wonder now if I ever truly knew him – if I'd ever truly _bothered_ to know him.

358. I'm here.

I suppose there's no time like the present to find out.

The door – a thick, brown slab of metal – is slightly ajar. I knock hesitantly, and it lurches open. I bite my lip in anticipation. Anxiety is once again pounding in my ears. I push my way in further, wincing as a loud creak announces my presence.

Huang's thin frame is hunched over a thick dark desk. He's talking intently on the phone, cradling the receiver in the crook of one shoulder while the other hand goes scrawling across an official-looking document. He's studiously engrossed in what he's doing, and he doesn't seem to have noticed me. His voice is as even and gentle as I remember, and my heart warms at the familiarity.

"Mmm hmm. Yes, the Thompson case should be ready to go. She made great progress. You're saying the family's resistant? I guess we can set up a conference..."

I glance briefly around the room, astonished at the changes. When I visited him in his office three years ago, his surroundings were clean, bright and metallic, with a great wide window looking over the city.

This room, by contrast, is dim and cluttered. The ceiling is low; the floor is covered in a worn burgundy carpet. Wall-to-wall bookshelves – close to overflowing with hardback books and hastily stuffed in papers – just add to the claustrophobic feel. The air feels somehow thicker in here – with the dust from his books, the buzzing of his old computer, and the muted golden light of his desk lamp.

"Well, did you check with the pharmacy? Sometimes they need to be jogged a little. No, I know, it's just the typical bureaucracy. Nothing we can really do about it..."

It takes Huang a second to notice my presence; still listening intently to the person on the phone, he holds up a placating finger, beckoning me to wait.

With a startled laugh, I realize he doesn't recognize me yet. I sink down into the chair across from his desk, trying to repress a grin of anticipation.

After a few seconds, Huang's eyes flicker up toward me distractedly – and then recognition hits him full force. He does an astonished double take, his mouth dropping open to form a perfect O of surprise. His pen falls out of his limp fingers and clatters to the desk.

For a long, awkward moment, the only sound is the woman chattering obliviously on the other end of the phone.

"Uh – that's great, Julie," Huang finally interrupts her, his voice pleasant but forced, his wide eyes never leaving my face. "Listen, can I call you back? Thanks..."

It takes him a few tries to put the receiver correctly back in the cradle; he's staring at me all the while.

"This... can't be," Huang finally manages. "Alex Cabot?"

"Yes," I answer quietly. I glance at the phone. "Do you have time?"

"Ah – of course I have time," he answers with a stunned laugh. "I just don't understand..."

I look Huang over carefully, contemplating how to answer, and I suddenly realize what a toll the last three years have taken on him. The changes are subtle, but deep. He'd always been a compactly built man, but now his gray suit jacket hangs limply from his gaunt shoulders. Deep creases line his brow, crow's feet frame his eyes, and I'm startled to realize the jet-black hair at his temples is flecked with gray.

But it's perhaps his eyes that have changed the most. Gone is the lively intellectual spark I remember. Now, it's more like the tired glow of embers in the fireplace, as though his energy is somehow dissipated.

"Alex?" he prompts me gently.

Startled, I jolt back to attention and hope he doesn't realize what was going through my mind.

"I was in witness protection," I finally answer. The words sound strangely factual coming out of my mouth, as though I'm talking about someone else. "My last case – I don't know if you remember it. Colombian drug lords." I stop abruptly, realizing the scandal has probably taught him more about drug lords than he'd like to know.

"Ah- yes. I see," Huang replies, although the bewilderment on his face hasn't completely receded. If the mention of drug lords bothers him, it doesn't show. "I... I still can't believe it."

His reaction is so astonished, so heartfelt that I can't help but feel a swell of embarrassment. And again I find myself simply deciding not to acknowledge it. "It's good to see you again."

He nods eagerly. "I'm glad you came by. We all missed you..."

"I missed everyone too," I whisper, glancing down at my hands self-consciously. "Things are... pretty different now, though."

Huang's shoulders stiffen fractionally. "I take it I'm not the first person you've seen."

"I saw Munch and Fin earlier today." It's the best I can offer by way of explanation; I still haven't fully processed everything they told me.

Huang nods. "I suppose you heard quite a story."

"Yeah, I did." I give him a hard look, and the accusation is flying out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Something about using classified information to aid gang warfare."

Huang cringes, unconsciously pressing a hand to his midsection. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

I gape at him for a few moments. It was one thing to hear Fin and Munch tell me he did it; it's quite another to hear it directly from his lips. I can't completely keep the edge of frustration out of my voice. "What the hell were you thinking? What – why would you do such a thing?"

Huang ducks his head, misery plain on his face. "Well, I can't speak for anybody else." His voice is a strained murmur. "But as for me, well... I was just so damn arrogant."

"What?" Whatever I'd been expecting to hear, that wasn't it. "What does that mean?"

"It means I thought I could do everything," he answers with a bitter shake of his head. "I thought, hey, I'm a psychiatrist, I can predict exactly how people will act. I can be a friend and therapist to Olivia without losing my objectivity. I'm an FBI agent, I can just do whatever I want with classified information."

I flinch. Though I was the one who brought it up, the fierce self-recrimination that floods Huang's voice is difficult to hear. "But how did it even start?"

He sighs, pondering for a long moment. "I guess it started at your... funeral." A thoughtful smile crosses his face at the oddity of what he's just said. "Olivia was beside herself. She tried to hide it, but... I could tell she was really hit hard." His eyes meet mine with a hesitant warmth. "Like I said, we really missed you."

"Thanks," I mumble awkwardly, feeling like a jerk for bringing up the scandal so soon after seeing him.

"Anyway, I'd say that was my first mistake," Huang continues. "I told Olivia she should talk to a counselor – a real counselor, not just me. But she said she wanted a friend, not a therapist. And I was arrogant enough to think I could do both." Pure disgust crosses his face. "Just a little bit of prodding from the great Doctor Huang, and Olivia would be right as rain. What a fucking ego I had."

I stare at him in shock, astonished at the acrid tone of his voice – not to mention the profanity. "What... what went wrong?"

"We..." he sighs. "We became friends. I know that sounds terrible, doesn't it, to say that's what went wrong? But I totally lost my objectivity. What irony – I'm supposed to be the shrink, and she completely sucked me in."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean..." His face darkens. "How can I explain it? I guess I was vulnerable too."

I lean back, startled. Vulnerability is not something I would have expected the tranquil psychiatrist to have, much less admit. "How so?"

"I..." Huang flails one hand in a wordless gesture, struggling to articulate. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a raw edge. "Did you know I had to read about your death in the newspaper?"

"What?" For a brief moment, I'm startled that my death was in the newspaper at all. "What are you..."

"I mean, I know I wasn't involved with your last case," he continues. "But somebody could have called me, you know? Let me know. But they didn't. When I saw the paper that morning, it was... quite a shock. And it brought home to me how little I..." He shrugs limply. "And you know what was worse? When I showed up to your funeral, the way people looked at me – I think they were genuinely surprised to see me, surprised to learn that I... actually cared about something other than crazy people..."

"George," I cut in firmly. "Nobody thought that about you. The Zapata case had so much secrecy, we couldn't..."

He laughs. "Alex, yes they did. You don't have to be nice." The smile fades from his face. "Don't you see? It wasn't your fault, it was mine. I'm the one who closed myself off, who didn't let anyone get involved, who..." He shrugs weakly. "Well, you know."

His self-castigation is difficult to hear; I try to steer the conversation back to the story. "So you and Olivia..."

"So, yes. We became friends." His dark eyes flash. "And I'd like to pretend I had completely altruistic motives when I helped her, but who am I kidding? It was just as much about me as her. And so, when she'd lash out at the Cartel, and how they were getting away with murder, I just thought... if I could help her somehow, tell her something to make her feel better, just give her something to hang on to..." He purses his lips thoughtfully. "And actually, she was right. The FBI really had been sitting on Cartel information and doing nothing with it. Politics with the DEA..."

I tilt my head inquisitively. "Did you know that at the time?"

"Not until..." He bites his lip. "Not until I snuck in and read the files. At first, that's all it was. Curiosity. Just – wanting to know, wanting to give Olivia some hope." He fiddles absently with a pen. "As you probably know, it soon went far beyond that."

"When did you start stealing the information?"

"Pretty quickly, actually," he answers after a moment's consideration. "Again, arrogance. I thought I knew exactly what she was going to do with it – just read it and be consoled that the FBI was wiretapping Velez and his people. I was such an idiot."

"She didn't do what you expected."

Huang laughs bitterly. "That's putting it mildly. No, I'd say Olivia had exactly the opposite reaction. She was furious that we had all this information and we weren't doing anything with it. I completely failed to anticipate..."

"That she'd go to narcotics."

"That, for starters." He shrugs. "But you know, even if she'd only been giving the information to the guys in narcotics, I could have lived with that. It wasn't until..." Grief edges his features, and he rubs absently at his chest, as though trying to soothe a deeply buried wound. "There was a horrific shoot-out down at the docks. The Triads ambushed the Cartel, killed about 15 Colombians... plus an 18-year-old prostitute who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time." He runs a hand through his hair, and the misery in his eyes suddenly makes him look ten years older. "I was suspicious that the Triads had been tipped off – the time and place were just too similar to something I'd talked about with Olivia. But when I confronted her, she denied everything. And I – I was so desperate to believe her, to believe that I hadn't been responsible for all that killing..."

"You couldn't have known," I cut in, although I can't deny a healthy sense of skepticism. Was he really so naïve?

"But I was at the start of the information chain. If I hadn't passed it along to Olivia, none of it would have..." Huang's voice is harsh, as though it's being scraped out of his throat. "For god's sake, that girl was pregnant."

"George," I murmur softly. No words I can think of will ease the desperate grief on his face, but I have to try, vaguely aware that I'm just repeating myself. "You didn't know."

"I didn't want to know." His voice is hollow. "But deep down, I did. As soon as I read it in the paper. It matched one of the shipments I talked to Olivia about. I just – I went into total denial. And you know, for a little while, it worked."

"What happened?" I ask quietly.

"A second, similar incident. The Triads ambushed a Cartel leader in the middle of traffic. This time three innocent bystanders were killed." His eyes are anguished, the pain as fresh as if it's just happened yesterday. "Four innocent people, dead because of me. And I could no longer pretend it wasn't my fault."

"Why didn't you stop?"

"I wanted to." He expels a fierce sigh. "But I was in too deep by that point."

"You mean you didn't want to get in trouble." I can't quite keep the accusation out of my voice.

Huang's eyes flicker up toward me guiltily. "Alex, if it had just been about the information, I would've been happy to take the fall."

"What?" I ask, bewildered. "What else _was_ there besides the information?"

He sits back in his chair and favors me with a contemplative look. "Let me show you something."

Huang opens his top desk drawer and rifles briefly through its contents. After a moment, he draws out a photograph. He rises from his chair, and I momentarily notice that he truly is much thinner than when I last saw him.

Unaware of my scrutiny, he circles the desk and seats himself in the chair next to me. He wordlessly hands me the photograph, and as I look down at the photo, I'm dimly aware that he's watching me with nervous, expectant eyes.

My mouth drops open slightly as I take in the subject of the picture. It's Huang, all right, but his arms are wrapped possessively around a man with curly black hair, deep bronze skin and impossibly wide, coal-black eyes. A lively grin animates the other man's face.

I laugh inwardly; I guess that answers a few questions about his home life. "What's his name?"

Huang's face softens with relief. "Paul." A fond smile touches his features. "We were together for six years."

"Six years?!" I ask. That was well before I'd gone into the witness protection program. "I never knew..."

"That was the general idea," Huang chuckles. "Nobody was supposed to know. Paul was a fellow agent – a translator. The FBI generally doesn't approve of such relationships." He shakes his head bitterly. "We were in totally different departments. It wouldn't have been a problem if we'd been a straight couple."

"So you were being blackmailed," I realize.

Huang nods, sullenness briefly touching his face. "Olivia had me over a barrel."

"I can't see her doing that," I protest. "She wouldn't really tell anyone."

"Maybe not," he acknowledges, "but her buddies in narcotics let me know they had no such compunctions. Any of them could've gone to my boss at anytime, and my career would've been over."

"Wasn't it finished anyway when you stole the information?"

He snorts. "Yeah. And to be honest, I didn't care if she outed me. But it wasn't just my career I was gambling with; it was Paul's, too." He winces, and his hand again flies to his chest. "And Paul... he had no idea. I never breathed a word of what I was doing. At first, because it didn't seem like a big deal – but then, when I realized what I'd gotten myself involved in, I couldn't possibly tell him." He eyes me plaintively. "He'd hate me."

"Oh, god," I murmur sympathetically.

"I backed myself into a terrible corner," Huang bursts out, his eyes wild with shame. "If I confessed, Paul would find out what I was doing. If I stopped, the FBI would find out about Paul. If I kept passing the information, I was helping kill innocent people." He makes a desperate noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. "I was a wreck. I was throwing up blood from all the stress, but I couldn't get out. Every alternative I had was so much worse."

I place a hand on his shoulder, eyeing the psychiatrist with intense pity. "So what finally changed?"

He turns to me, lifting an eyebrow. "Psych test."

I nod, remembering what Fin told me earlier. "They said there was a rumor..." I pause guiltily, but Huang doesn't seem bothered. "A rumor that you failed one."

He laughs harshly. "That's putting it mildly."

"What happened?"

"Well, you know, we shrinks get tested regularly – you know, so it's not the blind leading the blind." He sits back in the chair with a bemused shake of his head. "I had a full-on panic attack during mine. Chest pains, couldn't breathe, passed out, the whole nine yards. When I woke up and saw the doctor standing over me... I knew it was over. The FBI was already looking for the informant. It was just a matter of time." He pauses meditatively. "Although in some ways, it's the best thing that could've happened to me. I finally had a reason to come clean."

"So you confessed."

His expression darkens. "I told Paul first – I wanted to give him time to clear out." Huang's head droops despondently. "We're... not together anymore."

"I'm sorry," I offer. With a flash of pity, I realize Huang still has the picture of them together, and I wonder how much he's gotten over the breakup.

"I deserved it," Huang replies flatly. "I lied to him for a year straight."

"You didn't mean to," I answer firmly.

"I guess not, but it didn't really matter." He gives a tired shrug. "Anyway, the day after I talked to Paul, I went to the investigators and turned myself in. Worst day of my life, but also the best." He leans back in his chair, a small smile curving his mouth. "You know, I fully expected to go to jail, but I didn't care. I knew I deserved to face punishment." His face is suddenly somber. "I didn't realize I'd get off the luckiest..."

Judging from the haunted look in his eyes, the beaten-down slump of his shoulders and the haggard lines on his face, I'm skeptical at his claim that he's the lucky one. But I say none of that out loud. "People who confess usually do."

"Yeah." He looks down at his hands. "Olivia was furious."

I wince. "I guess I can see why."

"She took it personally." He purses his lips. "She thought I was getting my revenge on her, that I was trying to screw up her little crusade against the Cartel... the truth was that I just didn't care. I just wanted it all to stop." His face and his voice are distant. "She hates me now."

"I find that hard to believe..." I trail, remembering the friendly, vivacious Olivia I left behind.

"Well, I'd hate me too," Huang admits. "After all, she went to jail, and I just got this job."

"Is it..." I glance around the cramped office. "Do they treat you well here?"

"Sure. I mean, I now have plenty of time for research," he tells me, although if that prospect excites him, it's not apparent. "It's better this way. Even if the scandal hadn't happened, I still would've had to come out at some point. This way, I still get to help people, but my boss here doesn't care who I date. And my family gets to think I got fired for corruption instead of... that."

"They still don't know?" I ask incredulously.

He laughs. "No, they don't. They're very traditional. I succeeded for them in every other respect – medical school, the FBI, but..." His thin shoulders jerk in a tired shrug. "Sad, isn't it? I'm a 43-year-old man, and I still can't tell my parents."

"It's okay," I tell him gently. "At least you're... mostly out, I guess."

"Yeah," he nods. His voice is distant as he tries to repack the flood of memories. "I haven't talked about this in a long time."

"I-" I pause awkwardly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His gaze swings to mine. "You deserve to know. I can't imagine what it like – for us, it happened over a long period of time, but for you..." His dark eyes are gentle, inquisitive. "How long have you been back?"

I smile faintly, realizing Huang just switched into shrink mode – that tranquil, relaxing demeanor. "I've been out of the program for two weeks, but I only got back to the city today."

He nods. "What was it like? Witness protection, I mean."

I glumly recall a harbor filled with endless gray water. "Terrible."

"You didn't like where you were?"

"No, it was a nice town, it just..." I exhale a sharp sigh. I don't even know how to begin describing the flat, dull depression of the last three years.

"Pretending to be someone you're not?" Huang supplies quietly.

With a start, I realize he's not just trying to "shrink" me – he's speaking from personal experience. "I guess that was part of it. But what was worse, was just... not being able to go after what I wanted, always afraid I'd be found out if I stuck my head up too far, not being able to tell people around me what was going on..."

Huang nods, deep empathy in his voice. "Believe me, I know what that's like."

"I guess you would." I look up at him sharply, and in an instant, I feel a flash of our old complicity. It's not quite the same lively, intellectual rapport we used to have; it's a little wearier, but also deeper and more real, having been tempered by harsh experience. "Forty-three years, you said?"

He laughs. A serene smile ghosts across his face. "At least we're both out now."

-END CHAPTER 4-

* * *

Author's Notes: There really was an incident a few years back where the FBI fired a slew of gay agents – mostly translators. Way to go, guys. 

I also freely admit I have no idea what the inside of Bellevue or its Old Administration Building – apparently two separate structures – look like. If anybody would like to pay for my plane ticket to New York so I can do some research, be my guest. ;)

Coming up next: Elliot Stabler. How's his life in Jersey? How is he coping without Kathy? Tune in next time...


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